


The Trial of Tom Bishop

by Lynn_Nexus



Category: PAYDAY (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Courtroom Drama, F/M, Gunplay, Organized Crime, Roughness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2019-01-21 16:04:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12461178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lynn_Nexus/pseuds/Lynn_Nexus
Summary: Tom "Rust" Bishop is due in court.  He has a public defender and she's not exactly happy about what's going on.





	The Trial of Tom Bishop

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, this was written entirely today... I know there are some logical issues here, please forgive me. There are some things I just kinda wrote... And They may not actually apply to the really real world but the Payday world is kinda crazy anyway... so >.>
> 
> From the same head cannon as my other fic, technically after that one ends, probably by a few months. Not based on any actual heists from the game. If you wanna know more about my head cannon... My other Payday one has a bunch of background twisted into it >.>

Tom Bishop. That name was her utter ruination. Every click of the high heels she was wearing felt like a hammer to the back of her head. Confidence was her shield. The only salvation a ruse, a gamble, a mother fuckin' hiest. Disguise firmly in place, wig and makeup to make her look like some _other_ woman. She was some far vainer thing, someone who wore these fucking push up bras and too high heels made specifically to torment women, that she'd had to spend an excruciating day learning to walk in. Papers clutched against her chest, briefcase in hand in place of a purse. It was the one thing she was comfortable with. The briefcase felt like her bag, and knowing that it had some supplies tucked away inside made it the only comforting thing she had. Even the suit she was wearing was uncomfortable, stupid _skirt_. She'd had to work way too hard to not have a fit when she had to lay the damn case on a fucking scanner to get into the courthouse. Behind false glasses nearly black eyes looked at each courtroom to see if she was where she needed to be yet, a voice discreetly tucked away in her ear telling her it was three more doors.

Damn that man. Damn him to hell. And damn her right along side him. She should just let him go to jail. Intercepting a transport would probably be easier. Easier, like hell she would chance the _lazy_ route, just the thought twisted her guts. There were too many variables if he went to jail. Too many other hands that wanted to lay heavy on Tom. When she got her hands on him he was probably gonna wish she'd _let them_ get him instead. Sweet smile plastered on her face she let the beat of her heels cease for just a moment, guard pulling the courtroom door open for her. Like a damn bride on her way to her execution the beat of her heels echoed through the noise of the room. Marble and mahogany, they claimed that courts were like that for _durability_. That didn't change that it was useless as a eunuchs pecker.

She let the briefcase settle gently on the table and tapped the papers on the desk between her hands. She perched on the chair, ankles crossed demurely and knees shifted to the side. Sittin like a fuckin lady, like she really was one of these over stuffed birds. Primping preening creatures. Fake nails curled carefully over her ear to push the long locks of the dark blond wig back, purposefully letting her fingers trail down her own skin as she looked around. Be petite. Dainty. Pathetic. The plan hinged on her being weak. She heard her own heel click on the floor and stopped her fidgeting before it became obvious. A lawyer, because it's always a feckin lawyer, leaned over and he put his hand on the small of her back whispering something hushed to her. She nearly didn't hear him warning her they were going to be ten minutes early from the shock of him touching her. Her gun should be there. Right there under his hand, and it wasn't. Dressed in a full shirt buttoned all the way to her throat, a small vest, wool jacket and a mother fucking _cravat_... She felt nekid as a squallin babe. She gritted her teeth to stop herself from lashing out at him and blowing her whole fucking cover. A soft and docile thanks is all she can manage before having to turn back to her papers to pretend she's not about to gag.

The slam of a door brings him out and she can only just barely keep her tongue still enough to stop it from calling out to him. He's dressed in an orange jumpsuit and he's chained hand and foot. His jaw works uselessly for want of a toothpick to put between his lips like he does sometimes when he's frustrated. Frozen blue eyes level on her and his head rolls back, his jaw stops working and she can see his tongue dart across his dry lips, an eyebrow twitching upwards ever so slightly. Eyes hard as the mahogany railing and just as dark meet his, all pretense of a smile gone from her while he fights a grin. He looses the fight against a grin, his jaw sliding slightly to the side as he takes a breath to greet her. “Madam Defender...” He's so damn smug. He knows and she knows that he knows. Her lips purse and she can feel the god damn lipstick on her lips. “Tom Bishop. Nice ta meet you.” Keeping her accent in check is like a razor blade in her mouth. She holds a hand out to him as though she hasn't met him before. As though those hands haven't touched her before. He's undressing her with his eyes and she knows he is from the faint flicker of fire in his eyes and the way he's tipping his head down now. With the heels she's so much taller than normal, she almost doesn't have to look up to see his face, it means she can keep her chin down and glower at him over the useless glasses perched on her face.

He grips her hand, keeping his hands too close to his body and she has to stop herself from glancing down at them. There's warmth and strength in his hands, always has been, and it's been too long since he slid them up her back. “Please. Call me Rochelle.” The guard doesn't suspect a thing as she motions for him to sit after she pulls her hand away. “May I call you Tom, Mr Bishop?” He sits without looking at her and grabs the glass of water on the table, taking a sip with both hands entirely too close to each other for the action to be comfortable. “You can call me whatever you want Lady.” She hopes the look on her face looks like mild discomfort and not mild arousal, it should because being aroused in a courthouse is particularly uncomfortable. She picks up a pen and some of the papers, spreading the paper out in front of him. The action leaving her leaned over him and once again she feels naked but for a different reason. It's the tiny shift in the silver haired man, the way his fingers twitch. He wants to grab her. Run those thick, calloused hands over her skin and damn her if she doesn't want it. Not yet dumbass.

She puts a pen in his hand, motioning to a row where signatures need to go for her to be his public defender and she can see his ring and pinky fingers curl covertly around the earpiece she's dropped in his hand with the pen. She stands back and away from him, settling herself back in her chair. He leans forward heavily on his elbows, putting his hands together. Good he's transferring the damn bit of hardware from one hand to the other while pretending to actually read the contract. She watches him writing on the contracts like she's not going to let them paper the floor of this place in less than twenty minutes. After he's signed she stands again, gathering the papers and putting them in a neat pile next to her first pile. He smirks at her and leans against his hand, putting the left one by his ear. “So...” he leers at her and she stiffens under the drowning presence of his gaze. “What's a cute young thing like you doin' defendin an old coot like me?” He says it with a lecherous leer and she has to put on a face of mild distaste. She scolds him with his last name. “Mr Bishop! I'm your public defender. Age is inconsequential.” She can't let on how much his slow smooth drawl effects her. “I'm real glad to hear you say that... _Rochelle_...” She has to bite back a growl at him and his smug fucking face.

She can see his fingers flex over his ears as she tries not to growl at him. “Good ta have a cute face around.” He leaves his hand up to his ear for a moment longer letting the earpiece settle in his ear. “Ahm not here to be _cute_... _Tom_.” The helpful little voice demands he says a particular phrase in response to her. “Of course yer not sweetheart.” She could beat Bain into a _pulp_ for having him say sweetheart. She shuffles her papers like she's told to do to show that she can also hear the helpful titter in her ear. She opens her briefcase, pulls out the extra papers before clicking it closed and setting it between their chairs. There's a blade, honestly it's just a shiv, something that he _could_ have made himself and brought with had the guards been sloppy. His voice is so low she almost doesn't hear it and she manages to keep fussing with things. “You _agreed_ to this?” He questioned and she sat up, sniffing indignantly as though he had said something indecent. She shoved her back ramrod straight like she didn't want to lean into him and have his lips on her neck. She curled her lip at him and kept her eyes hard at him before looking back forward. Her message clear, don't you dare fucking break my cover ya bollix.

He leaned over to look at what she was doing, covertly getting out the shiv he had been informed of. Her every nerve sang with her discomfort. Almost time. Almost time. So damn close. Freedom was so feckin close. She didn't even hear what it was he whispered in her ear as Bain told her to lean into him. From the scoffing on the other end of the line it was probably some sugary joke or apology as his fingers graced her arm for just a moment. Too many layers of cloth between them, too much wool and cotton. She's been listening for the click. That click right there. The sound of him popping one of the cuffs so he can get his arm around her neck. He needs to be able to threaten her to stall for enough time for the boys. The boys are in place, she can hear Bain tell them where to set the charges. Then there's a signal in her ear, she's to pretend she doesn't know, she's supposed to scream. He shoves his head down and unlocks the ankles with practiced fingers before her _character_ can notice. She notices, god damn, she notices. Swiftly, just as the guard starts to move he sweeps his arm around her neck and there's a blade pressing against her throat. She lets real panic flood her face. It's not him, it's not her lover, it's a cop with a vendetta or a mob punk and she's hyperventilating because she doesn't have her armor, she doesn't have her gun, she's nekid as anythin and the guys are too far away. Her fingers scrabbled at the arm around her throat and it wasn't his breath on her ear or his voice demanding the guards stand back as he pulls her towards the center of the room of marble and mahogany.

A deafening thunder crack explodes to her left, a wall turned to rubble as the boys pour out. Bullets fly and she's still supposed to pretend that she's a public defender lady, that she's not a blood thirsty bitch who'll just as gladly put you down as look at you if you get in her way. Because they won't shoot at him as long as he's got a hostage. He drags her and she screams in wordless panic. She's gotta keep forgetting it's _him_. It's some random biker, he's gonna kill her and she'll never see Rust again and the only solace is that she knows damn well Rust and Hox will kill the motherfucker. She scrabbles and fights and imagines Hox's rage, Bonnie's tears and Rust. She imagines how Rust would react if she was killed. That low boil of rage flashing out of control and burning him to cinders or him drowning himself under a sea of drink or him not caring. _That_ is enough to get tears leaking out of her. It _is_ Rust, and Rochelle means nothing to Tom, and Rust doesn't care about Clover and she's sobbing now, letting that pain wash her and leave her helpless, easily drug off.

And then she cuts that pain off as he lets go of her, his hand runs over her chest to her waist. His face just momentarily in her fake hair. “Get that stupid fuckin wig off Clover.” She growls wordlessly and rips it off, taking the offered gun while she throws her disguise to the wind. Glasses gone, cravat discarded, heels thrown violently in their slow jog that turns into a run. Her feet are never bare because she was wearing thin, leather bottomed socks inside the shoes that protect her feet. Everything has been thought of. Clover breaks free from Rochelle. She's got her pistol and now she's clothed, it's in the waist of her skirt immediately because they are handing her a rifle as they slam out the door. “FUCK YOUUU!!” She bellows at the guard who tries to stop them as they circle Rust and she unloads half a dozen bullets into the man. The ladylike woman who walked in is totally gone. Clover's feet spread wide, forcing the skirt slightly up her thighs as she braces to shoot. It's a short troubled run to the van. She and Rust are the first in, Chains and Dallas pulling up the rear. The doors slammed and the van lurches away, speeding out.

Rust is on her, his hand slid into her hair and his hand is around her waist and his lips press hard against hers. She claws into him, desperation twining her hands in his hair and grabbing the ugly orange cloth over his back. “Ok mother fucker... Leggo our little actress.” She rolls her head back to breathe for a second while he inhales her, clutching her covetously to his chest. There's a hint of a growl out of him at Chains little joke but he forces a chuckle. He lets go of her and she punches him, screeching like a harpy. “Rust ya minge! Ya bleedin tick!” She batters his shoulders and howls in his face, she can't miss how he grinds his teeth. “Nice ta see you too Clover.” Her clawed fingers dig into his jumpsuit hard enough to pop one of the fake nails off, ejecting it like a cartridge. “Dunt ya _ever_ do anithin' 'at _stupid_ agin' ya gobshite!” Some of her rage bleeds away as he looked down at her, and she knew that he could never agree to her demands. “Can you two have your lover's quarrel _after_ were sure we're in the clear?” Dallas growls, she responds with a hard glare, trying to let go of all the hurt and worry but she only succeeds in pushing it away for now, letting herself be still by sitting on the door to those feelings.

The silence is deafening between them. Tempers boiled down to nothing, leaving only scorching hurt. The safe house is busy and they split away from each other like two sides of a wound. Finally he opens her door without knocking and she glares up at him. It's entirely too fresh a hurt. Being held back while he put his hands behind his head and knelt. Too many bullets and not enough time to go back, no hostage to leverage with. Cockin up a heist had never hurt _so damn bad_. Not all the times she'd been shot, stabbed and punched, never once had it hurt like _that_. He looks down at her where she's curled on her bed with her knees up and the stupid makeup cleaned away but tears still stain her face. He's back in his teeshirt and jeans and even as angry at him as she is she can't deny she wants him to touch her. But he just stands there, door closed behind him, hands in his pockets while he looks stoically down at her. Her eyes land on the shell dangling around his throat. Dallas probably made sure to get it if she was to guess, along with Rust mask. Probably both in lock up, they got that stuff while she was playing pretend. 

She'd done entirely too good a job of convincing herself that she didn't matter to him so she as much expected him to slap her as she did for him to touch her with his usual gentleness. “D'ya even kno why Ahm upset wit ya?” She questions and he shrugs, begged into motion by her voice and he sits down on her bed next to her, letting his hands hang between his knees while he looks over at her. “Assume ya didn't like me playin' martyr.” She felt a new wave of pain wash over her as she remembered the cop slamming the butt of their shotgun into his face. “Heard ya screamin...” He admitted as he looked forward, not willing, or maybe not able, to look at her now. She's about to bite his head off for not caring about how much that upset her when he hangs his head. The action seems so defeated, he's so slumped and it just doesn't seem right. “Damn I'm glad it wasn't the other way around.” She hisses at that, at her being in his spot at that terrible failed heist. “Wut are ya on about?” Cold blue eyes look up at her and she can see how his guts twist at the thoughts behind those eyes. “I don't know if you'd have stopped fighting.” He winces and she's agape. “I don't know if you'd have dropped your guns... and without any backup... If they shot you... They'd kill you at that sort of range.” 

She hisses a response back at him. “Bleedin eejit! Wut abut you?! If they'da shot ya ye'd be jus as dead?!” He shook his head and sighed then his teeth grit. “I stopped. The chance they were gonna shoot me was pretty slim.” It was a cold hand around her heart, crushing the organ with ice. “Ya think I'm _that_ daft?” She questions and he shakes his head. “No... just... Stubborn.” A wounded kind of scream leaves her. She knows she's asking too much, that he wouldn't have changed what happened and she got him out and she should be happy. But she's not, she's angry and sad and she can't stop. “Clover you were already hurt... An Sokol nearly lost a fuckin leg. You needed the distraction.” She shoves him and he tries to stop himself from falling but she put her whole body into it. She pins him to the foot of her bed and he looks up at her, he's not even shocked. He looks like he's waiting for her to hit him again. Her frozen heart shatters into a million tinkling pieces and she sobs on him. He wraps her in his arms and she curls into his neck. He shifts and he pulls her around on the bed, pulling her against him.

The whole world shifts as he cradles her in his arms. He jolts at the press of her teeth on his slightly rough throat, it's been a few days since he shaved. Now she's pressing against him and her teeth are on his skin demanding he hold still for her and let her have him. He's already panting at her, he groans at the too hard bite and she lets up, kissing tenderly the flesh she's abused. She's not good. No one ever accused her of being good but she knows she's not just bad. She's evil. She's the bitch that'd shoot a man in the bawls and laugh about it. But even Hitler had a heart. It just matters if you fit in the heart of the evil person and Rust had wedged himself in her chest. He slid his hand against her skin and she whined pitifully as his hands couldn't be on enough of her at once. She's still got her pistol on her and he doesn't disarm her, doesn't pull the gun from her waistband. His fingers flit around the edges of the gun but he doesn't pull it out. When she changed into sweats and a teeshirt she didn't bother with a bra which he is quick to discover while she grinds against him, heels pulling his hips against hers.

She disarms herself. Clearing the gun without breaking her lips from his skin. She's shivering with how badly she needs him, how much she wants him. Rust is smarter than she sometimes gives him credit for. Maybe it's because he can be pretty fucking wise, or he just knows enough about her to know when she needs to be on top. When she needs to feel him under her or needs to feel him over her. He just lets her ravage all of his exposed neck, grabbing her ass with both hands as she grinds against him. “Clover... Fuck... Rochelle!” He's _almost_ pleading and she can feel his voice in her lips. She lets out something half way between a whimper and a growl before she sits up on him. She's bruised his throat on the side and when she leans up he's quick. He whips his shirt off, letting it dangle over the edge of her bed while she watches him. There's fire behind his usually icey eyes but they roll into his head as she rocks her hips again, a shiver slithering over him. She takes the shiver as permission to go back to what she needs to be doing. 

A hand lands on that shell, leaning on his chest, pinning him down again. She demands more and more of him, more of his lips, more of his hands. Her legs are cupped tightly around his hips, he can barely buck into the pressure, his feet still seem to be seeking purchase. He doesn't cry out again, not now, not when she bites his collar, not when her nails dig in, not until _she_ whines. “K'mon...” He pants. “Lemme get... unbuttoned... at least...” Her lips are blood red from being pressed to his flesh and he's got more marks on him than she's _ever_ put on him. It takes more control than she's shown all day to pry her leg out and away from him, to roll onto her back so she can wriggle out of her pants and he can unbutton his. She was so damn cold as he scooted onto the bed further, starting to shove his pants down, there was a feral grace to her as she slid back across him, not letting him undress the rest of the way. This time he's curled against her, wrapping her in his arms and he's biting her back. He ran his face up her neck as she gripped his shoulders and he wrapped around her torso, biting her collar and throat sweetly. She shifted her hips and pressed against him, wriggling him into her without pulling away from him. He grunted as he tried to help her as much as he could. He groaned as she slid down over him, she hissed at the warmth sinking into her. Finally she wasn't frozen and shattering, she had him as close as he could be. “Rust...” The needy whisper slid through his hair and her lips pressed against whatever she could reach, his hair, forehead, and when he turned his head up to her, his lips. 

She ground against him still, her body falling into twitchy movements, her breathing ragged. His hand on her thigh gripped tighter while his nose was still pressed up under her chin. The only submission she offered him the tilt of her head as she rode him and he accepted that expanse of her throat greedily. He groaned against her throat as she shuddered around him, a harsh cry vibrating out of her as his teeth caught on her collar again, his arm wrapped around her back, laid along her spine while his other slid up her thigh and over her ass, pressing his fingers into the soft flesh. She came undone, nails running over his shoulder, as she lost her grip on reality, her head rolled back limply as she fought to remember how to breath. He kept her moving, used her body until he shuddered against her too, arching forward over her boneless torso. He cradled her body against his, pulled her tight against his chest, pulling her limp arm to him as he fought to lay them down. “This what it's gonna be like every time I get picked up by the cops?” He whispered against her, still buried inside of her, letting her rest on top of him. “Prolly not?” She questioned herself with a soft sniffle. “Fer the best... Fun as that was m'not really crazy bout splainin all those bites on ya...”

She let go and slid down to the bedding while he followed her some, rolling onto his side to look into her eyes. “Gotta be honest I'm glad ya tossed the gun...” She frowned at him. “Wasn't entirely sure you were clearin it when ya pulled it out.” He kissed her nose sweetly, gently. His hands roved over her in warm soft caresses, his face was serious but soft as his hands. “Rust... How kin ya say sumthin like that?” He chuckled a soft but sad little chuckle. “Really Clover? With how angry and aggressive you were bein?” The fondness in his voice did her in. “Right... Aye.” She sighed and closed her eyes. He kissed her forehead. “Wanna get under the covers and sleep some time away?” He questioned and she smiled warmly at him with her eyes closed. “Aye.” He pulled her to his chest and rolled them, flipping the blanket out of the way on one side of the bed then rolling onto her to get the other side. She giggled softly at the rolling around, shuddering at the cool blankets on her already too cool skin. But Rust was warm, and he was here. And she was ruined. Laid to waste, by Tom Bishop.

**Author's Note:**

> So I have a bad tendency of getting a song in my blood and then obsessing over it until I can write something to it. This fic is entirely because of Arsonist's lullaby and insomnia. I've been listening to that song for like three days and just wanted to write something kinda sorta Noir, but I'm not particularly good at any specific genera. So this is what happened. The song, If you don't wanna go look it up, has a really insistent, heavy beat, like heavy feet walking. It's apparently on/with/for the Punisher series so pairing it with Payday seemed kinda... right?
> 
> Started this at.. probably 4 this morning and it's 8 pm right now and I'm just finishing putting the tags for the italics in... So yea. If that tells ya how not necessarily polished this is... >.<


End file.
